


untitled artist!gabriel au

by Katie (katieandsav)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ???!Dean, Artist!Gabriel, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Professor!Castiel, lawyer!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katieandsav/pseuds/Katie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Tumblr post below, this AU focuses on the progression of the relationship between Sam Winchester, a respectable lawyer, and his tattooed oddball artist of a boyfriend, Gabriel, through a series of short chapters. Might feature some Dean/Castiel scenes later on, but for now it's mainly Sabriel. </p><p>'Sam introducing his family to artist boyfriend Gabriel who’s standing there in a ‘pansexual pirate wants all the booty’ t-shirt with a couple paint splatters on his face, fancy sunglasses on his head, and a tootsie pop in his mouth- but it’s all so normal to Sam he forgets how weird Gabe actually is, and he’s suddenly reminded of when he used to bring frogs or strange rocks inside and tell Dean “look what I found!”- it’s literally just like that except this time it’s “look I found a dork I’m gonna keep him and love him forever dean stop looking at me like that”' - Tumblr user Aleatoryw</p><p>Note: These are not in order. They're simply random drabbles based on the lives of the characters within this AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. meeting dean

Dean is about 99% sure he’s high or drunk or something. Despite not having consumed a drop of alcohol or lit up a single joint since hearing he’s going to meet Sam’s (Presumably) Super Respectable Significant Other, he’s pretty certain that what he’s seeing can’t be real. 

Sam, for his part, is filling his role of looking like he’s gonna shit his pants from nerves sometime in the near future fine enough. All required sheepish smiles and anxious hair-adjusting present and accounted for. No problem there. 

But the…  _thing_ standing beside him? The little, blonde, inked-up  _dude_? That’s about the entire reason Dean’s becoming steadily more and more convinced that he’s tripping. 

"You must be Dean," chirps the tiny guy on the doorstep, swirling his tongue around the red orb of a Tootsie Pop and flashing a grin.

"Uh. Yeah. And you’re…" Dean trails off as his attention is drawn to the garishly-bright shirt the dude’s wearing. The only detail he really absorbs is that there’s a blue, yellow and pink pirate saying something about pansexuals and booty on it.

"Gabriel!" the guy—Gabriel—supplies cheerily. 

"My  _boy_ friend,” Sam adds, slipping an arm around Gabriel’s waist pointedly even if his voice is a couple octaves higher than usual. He gives Dean a look that says  _I know what you’re thinking and don’t you dare say it_ _,_  and continues, “Who I like. Very much.” 

Gabriel practically purrs at the attention from Sam, and holds a paint-stained hand out to Dean. “Nice to meetcha, Deano.” Then, before Dean’s even had the opportunity to shake his hand, Gabriel’s bustling past the older Winchester into the house and is blabbering about something he saw on  _Extreme Homes._

Dean looks over his shoulder just in time to see Gabriel wandering into the kitchen, then turns back to face Sam and says, “Uh.” 

"Dean," Sam says, warningly. 

"He seems…" 

“ _Dean_.” 

"…nice?" 

Sam huffs out a relieved laugh at that, though it’s tinged with tension around the edges. “He’s a lot to take in at first, I know. But—” 

And Dean will probably never find out what Sam was going to say next, because then Gabriel’s skidded back into the hallway and is chastising Dean about the colour of his kitchen so agitatedly Dean can’t really understand what the hell the guy is even trying to say. All he catches is a, “Lime green?  _Really?”_ at the end before Gabriel trudges back into the kitchen again. 

"He’s got a thing about greens. I think it’s food-related," Sam explains with an apologetic look, and trails after his boyfriend.

***

As the evening progresses, Dean learns that Gabriel’s working on a series of paintings inspired by the angels he and his siblings are named after. It also becomes apparent that Gabriel’s got an over-sharing problem. And a PDA problem. Which is probably how, somewhere between dessert and coffee, he ends up perched in Sam’s lap while detailing the story of how his younger brother walked in on him and Sam dancing the horizontal tango and couldn’t look either of them in the eye for a month. 

"You should meet him," Gabriel concludes thoughtfully around a mug of coffee that’s more sugar and foam than actual beverage. "Cas, I mean. He’s got three winters’ worth of firewood up his ass, sure, but I think you’d like him. Don’tcha think Deano and Cassie’d make a good couple, Samster?" 

Sam mumbles out something about Dean’s aggressive über-masculinity probably preventing him from hooking up with a guy for anything longer than a one-night stand, then stretches out further on the couch and drifts back into his after-dinner sleepy daze again. 

Shooting his younger brother a glare, Dean admits, “Gonna hafta agree with Sammy here, Gabriel. I ain’t usually too big on dick—” 

He’s cut off as some fiddly gadget, an iPhone or iPod or iSomething-of-the-sort, is tossed at him. Dean catches it before it hits him in the face, then stares at the picture displayed on the screen, puzzled, and looks up for some explanation. 

Gabriel points at the iThing. “Novak family photo. Forget the awkwardness and whatever Balthazar’s doing with his hands. Just focus on the kid in the trench coat. Dark hair, blue eyes, looks vaguely constipated… He’s hard to miss.” 

Dean drops his gaze to the photo again, murmuring out a, “Huh,” when he finds the sexpot Gabriel’s referring to. Definite interest is stirred within Dean at the sight of the messy-haired guy that must be Castiel, and he becomes very aware of the fact that Cas looks like he’s just stumbled out an office-set porno. 

"Can’t see much of a family resemblance," Dean comments, looking between Castiel and the fair-haired, golden-eyed Gabriel. 

"To quote Thor in  _The Avengers,_ he’s adopted. So’re the rest of us in the Novak brood. Long story. But also probably how I ended up an artist and he became a World Religions professor, now that I think about it.” Gabriel wriggles a bit in Sam’s lap, demanding attention until Sam wraps his arms around him. Apparently satisfied by that, Gabriel’s relaxes back against the younger Winchester’s chest and takes another sip of coffee. 

"He’s a professor? Huh," Dean says again, suddenly feeling even more open to exploring his sexuality than he did thirty seconds ago, and he studies Castiel’s picture further. 

He only looks back at Gabriel when he feels a pair of amber eyes boring into him. “What?” asks Dean cautiously at the sight of the expression on Gabriel’s face. 

Gabriel squints at Dean before twisting at the waist to peer at Sam too. As he does so, his shirt lifts up a little and Dean catches sight of a pair of wings inked into the skin of his lower stomach, framing a sigil Dean doesn’t recognise. 

"Jesus," Gabriel says when he turns back to Dean. 

“ _What?_ " 

"You Winchester boys really are something, huh?" 

"Meaning?" demands Dean, growing annoyed with Gabriel’s whole act. 

"The goody-two-shoes nerd of the litter, ol’ Sammaroo over here—" Gabriel pats Sam’s hand affectionately, "—has the hots for a dropout artist with more ink than a biro factory, and Mr Testosterone’s got a kink for bedheaded professors with trench coat obsessions?" Gabriel lets out a gleeful cackle. "If that ain’t the plot for a sitcom, I’m Aretha Franklin!"


	2. first encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a prequel to the first chapter aha

In those cheesy romantic movies, people that are going to fall in love always meet in a certain way. It’s beautiful and poetic and charming, and you know from the get-go that the couple in question is going to face some difficulties because there’s no point in watching the movie otherwise, but you also know that they will, inevitably, meet their happy ending, because Love Conquers All.

Unless, of course, it’s a story like  _Titanic_ , in which case it’s sort of depressing and you’d better throw away all hopes of a happy ending because you sure as hell aren’t getting one. But Sam and Gabriel’s story doesn’t involve blue diamonds and Gabriel isn’t played by Leonardo DiCaprio and there’s no Celine Dion singing in the background and, besides, Sam gets seasick (even if he doesn’t like to admit it till he’s a nanosecond away from hurling). The only similarity between  _Titanic_ and Sam and Gabriel’s story is that both feature an artist.

Of course, Sam and Gabriel do not meet like the heroes of an epic love story, because that would be far too conventional and Gabriel seems to have a deep aversion to anything vaguely normal. 

It all starts with a stolen donut. 

And if this story were a movie, the script might open a little like this: 

INT. ANGEL WINGS COFFEE SHOP - DAY

GABRIEL is standing at the counter, looking somewhat dismayed as he stares at a redheaded barista. 

GABRIEL  
Charlie. 

CHARLIE  
Gabriel. 

GABRIEL  
The hell d’you mean there aren’t any donuts left!? 

CHARLIE  
I mean, there aren’t any donuts. Sold the last one to some big guy wearing enough plaid to supply the whole of Scotland with kilts. Sorry, bud. 

GABRIEL  
But I always get donuts on Tuesday mornings. You can’t just  _not_ give me my donuts. I can sue you for emotional trauma or something. 

CHARLIE  
I would’ve saved one for you if I could, you know that. But it’s a first come, first serve basis and You Know Who would have my neck if I told a customer they couldn’t have their order because I’m saving it for some guy who may or may not drop by that morning. 

CHARLIE offers an apologetic smile, and points to A REAL LIVE SASQUATCH sitting at a booth in the corner of the coffee shop. 

CHARLIE  
You can hash it out with the guy that took the last donut, if you want?

GABRIEL  
Okay. 

CHARLIE  
What—you know I was joking, right? Gabriel. Gabriel! Get back here!

Although Charlie can’t really be blamed for Gabriel’s decision to take her up on her offer, anyone who’d ever met the artist would have advised her to just keep her ideas to herself. Because a moment later, Gabriel’s standing face to laptop with the Abominable Plaidman, who’s nibbling warily on a powdered donut that looks absolutely tiny in his large hand. 

It takes the Yeti some time to register that Gabriel’s waiting for his attention, rather than just hovering nearby his table for no particular reason (which, in all honesty, is something Gabriel would do and has done before). 

"Uh," the Yeti says, looking slightly relieved to be distracted from the donut. 

"That’s my donut," says Gabriel. 

"Uh," the Yeti says again, now appearing confused. "It is?" 

Gabriel crosses his arms, gearing up to give the Yeti an earful about how he gets a donut every Tuesday morning to fuel his Creative Juices, otherwise he gets awful artist’s block and can’t paint for a  _week_  and, really, it’s quite selfish to take the last donut when you don’t know if there’s someone out there who needs it more than you do—

And then he realises the Yeti is actually sort of hot and, damn, he wouldn’t mind hitting that, so he tucks away his (completely understandable and justified) anger and says, “But, you know, you can have it if you want,” and plonks down on the couch opposite the Yeti. 

"Thanks, I guess?" the Yeti says, frowning at Gabriel, and it becomes apparent that his gaze is fixed on the tattoo of a large, starkly-inked feather on Gabriel’s arm. 

Gabriel preens under the attention, becoming proud rather than self-conscious, and offers, “Name’s Gabriel. I’m guessing you’re Chewbacca, so can I call you Chewie for short, or…?” 

The Yeti huffs out a laugh at that, and sets the infamous donut down on the edge of his coffee’s saucer. “I prefer Sam, if you don’t mind.” A slight smile quirks the side of his mouth. 

"Nice to meetcha, Sammy." 

Sam frowns again. “My name’s not Sammy. Only my brother can call me that.” 

Gabriel pauses to consider this. “Your brother have exclusive dibs on Sammo, too? How about Samster? Sammich? Sammarooni? Samalam—?” 

"Just—just Sam, thanks." But he’s smiling full-on now, showing off a set of almost annoyingly perfect teeth. 

"Sure thing, Just Sam," Gabriel quips with a wink, his grin growing wider when Sam laughs at his corny dad joke. He scrapes at a patch of blue paint that’s dried on the back of his hand with his thumbnail as he leans back in his chair, considering Sam. 

"You’ve never come to this coffee shop before," Gabriel concludes eventually. "I think I’d remember you otherwise, ‘cause, you know, you’re kinda the size of a skyscraper." 

Sam shakes his head. “No, I, uh. I haven’t been to this place before. My brother, he, er, recommended the donuts here—said they were a great way to kick off your morning and all that. So I decided to try one out.”

"And is the verdict in yet?"

Sam’s smile turns sheepish. “I don’t really see the big deal, to be honest. It’s just a donut.” 

Gabriel tries not to look too offended, and probably fails. “Damn straight, it’s a donut. Best freakin’ donut in the state,” he defends.

"I’ve tasted better," Sam says with a shrug. "I sort of prefer healthier stuff anyway." 

Tipping his chin up with interest, Gabriel leans forward to pluck the tan and red menu sheet off the table. “Well, Samster, I may be a connoisseur of all things sugary, but that don’t mean I don’t know my way around a good salad. Whaddaya say we rendezvous here tomorrow and I make a couple suggestions of my own?” He cocks an eyebrow. 

Sam glances down at the laptop in front of him, some version of the Macbook by the looks of it, and slowly closes the lid. “How about we do that now?” When looks back up at Gabriel, he’s wearing this crooked half smile that’s all boyish cheekiness underneath his pretense of sensibility, and Gabriel’s pretty sure that even the best of salads couldn’t singlehandedly get that reaction. 

And, craziest thing, but he’s even forgotten to be annoyed that Sam stole his donut.

(Okay, so, maybe their first encounter  _was_  cheesy. But only a little.)


	3. first kiss

Later, Dean would come to be confused about where Sam’s sudden love for  _The Breakfast Club_  came from. Sam won’t ever tell him, of course, because it’s too entertaining to watch Dean try to figure it out for himself to want to spoil it, but it starts with an outraged yelp from Gabriel in the middle of Angel Wings coffee shop. 

"You’ve  _never_ seen  _The Breakfast Club!?_ " Gabriel demands around a mouthful of donut one Tuesday afternoon. 

"Uh, no?" says Sam, ducking his head a little because Gabriel’s outburst has resulted in more than a few curious eyes settling on them. "I never got the chance and I guess it never really interested me anyway. I mean, it’s just a bunch of kids in detention." 

Gabriel stares at him. Then he swallows his last bite of donut, grabs Sam’s arm and hauls him to his feet. “C’mon, then.” 

"What? Where—?" 

"We’re going back to my apartment and I’m forcing you to watch  _The Breakfast_ _Club_ even if I have to tie you to a chair for the duration of the movie because this is a  _national travesty_ , Sam Winchester, and it needs to be corrected.” 

There’s a note in his voice that allows no room for argument, and by now Sam knows better than to try.

As Gabriel drags Sam out the café, Charlie calls after them: “If my OTP goes canon and you two don’t tell me ASAP, you can say goodbye to the extra biscuits we always give you with your coffees.”

Sam is pretty sure he can hear Anna mumble back something like  _Shh, don’t let Crowley hear that. And besides, they’re already—canon. They’ve been coming here on dates for the past three months!_ He wants to hang back to remind her that he and Gabriel just meet up for lunch a lot, and that having lunch doesn’t automatically equate to being on a date. 

But Gabriel is babbling on about characters Sam doesn’t know yet, so excited by the topic that his words are all rushing together in one long stream of syllables, and Sam doesn’t want to interrupt him. 

Not that he’d ever let Charlie or Anna know, but he kind of likes listening to Gabriel talk.

***

Gabriel’s home makes Sam feel like he’s landed in a movie. 

The loft apartment, which looks to be far bigger than the artist needs, is the perfect picture of organised chaos: colourful furniture is arranged haphazardly around the easels and canvases covering the floor, and the walls are decorated with dozens of murals and splatters of paint. It’s a bright, airy, cheerful place that’s as comfortably haywire as Gabriel himself, and the happiness woven through the air is so infectious that Sam starts smiling without realising. 

"Jesus, Gabe," Sam says, hearing the awe in his own words as he peers out the full-wall windows looking over the city below. "Being an artist must pay better than I thought."

Gabriel comes up beside Sam. “Uh. No. My dad’s a writer, and he, um, he wrote this series about these _Ghostbuster-_ y dudes that hunt demons and all that supernatural crap. S’got this sort of cult following, and now he’s got more money than I guess he knows what to do with. So he gets me and my brothers and sisters nice shit to have something to waste it on.” He nudges Sam in the ribs with his elbow. “Sammy, you got a crush on the real-life Veruca Salt.” 

Sam feels heat creeping up from under his collar at Gabriel’s comment, and he’s just about to tell him off when he notices the way the artist is shifting his weight from foot to foot and uneasily rubbing at a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. 

"So when are we gonna watch this famous  _Breakfast Club_ movie?” Sam asks instead to change the topic, relaxing when the discomfort drains from Gabriel. 

"As soon as you get your ass into gear," Gabriel reaches down, briefly entwining his fingers with Sam’s and sending a small jolt through the him, "and come sit down on the couch with me." 

Gabriel hops over and around the items in his path, plonking down on the cushiony yellow sofa with an air of ease that suggests this is a route through the apartment he takes often. Sam, however, finds it markedly more difficult to navigate from the windows covering one wall to the sofa, and ends up almost tripping over a small sculpture of a six-legged horse. 

"Watch that you don’t knock over Sleipner," Gabriel says distractedly as he fiddles with a remote. 

"Sleipner?" Sam enquires as he finally collapses beside Gabriel. "Isn’t that Loki’s child?" 

Gabriel shoots him a pleased half smile. “You betcha. Got a soft spot for Loki. Tricksters—they’re kind of like these Karmic policemen with superpowers, y’know? It’d be nice to know that there’s some greater force out there to knock all those almighty douchebags down a peg.” He taps the tattoo on his wrist that he was rubbing earlier. Now that Sam is given the opportunity to examine it, he sees that it’s two snakes interlocking in an  _S_ shape.

"Those are Urnes Snakes," continues Gabriel. "I dunno if they’re actually Loki’s symbol, but a lotta people associate them with him ‘cause he’s as flexible and good as getting outta trouble as a snake." He shrugs. "Whatever the case, it’s good enough for me—" _  
_

Gabriel breaks off with a triumphant sound as the TV flickers to life, then orders Sam to stay on the couch while the opening credits start playing. Even across the apartment, Sam can hear him singing along:

“ _Don’t you forget about me!_  
 _Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—_  
 _Don’t you forget about me!_ ”

By the time he returns with a large bowl of popcorn, having closed all the blinds and shut off the lights, the voiceover in the movie is talking about simple terms and convenient definitions. 

"Are you ready to witness the cinematic masterpiece that is  _The Breakfast Club_?” Gabriel whispers, sitting beside Sam again. 

"I guess s—" 

"Shh! No talking!"

***

“ _…sincerely, the Breakfast Club.”_

Before the scene has even faded out, Gabriel’s already whirled around to face Sam. “So?” he prompts. “Whaddaya think, Sammo?” 

Sam continues to watch the screen as the credits roll. “I don’t get why the athlete—”

"Andrew. You mean Andrew."

"—felt so bad about taping that kid’s butt cheeks together." 

Gabriel makes a wild, frustrated gesture. “Because! He was so caught up in trying to impress his own dad that he didn’t think how shitty and embarrassing it’d be for Larry Lester to explain to  _his_ dad what’d happened, and—”

Sam can’t hold his laughter in any longer; through a cackle, he placates, “Calm down, Gabe, I was just joking. It was a good movie. I liked it.” 

“ _Good_ is a massive understatement, but I’ll let it slide,” Gabriel says, flopping against Sam. 

Immediately, Sam freezes—but if Gabriel notices, he doesn’t react. He just snuggles closer to Sam, yawning something about being too lazy to turn the lights on again. 

They sit like that for a bit. 

Gabriel smells like paint and soap. 

Sam wonders if Gabriel can hear just how hard his heart is slamming against his chest. 

Sam also wonders what’ll happen if he passes out right this second. 

He thinks he should probably do something before that happens.

So, very slowly, Sam slides his arms around Gabriel’s shoulder. 

"Huh," Gabriel says against Sam’s pec, and he sits up a little so they’re looking at each other. 

"Huh?" Sam prompts hesitantly, studying Gabriel’s face for any hint as to what he may be thinking. 

"For a smart guy, Samster, you’re pretty slow on the uptake." 

And for the life of him, Sam can’t manage to figure out if that’s a good or bad thing. Eventually, he just asks, “Do you want me to move my arm?” 

"Nah," Gabriel says after a moment of consideration. "You’re good. And, Sam?" 

"Yeah?"

"You know you can kiss me if you want, right?" 

"Right," Sam replies, feeling a blush steal across his cheeks. Carefully, he lets his free hand trail up Gabriel’s arm, following the line of a blossoming vine inked into the artist’s skin. He cards his fingers through Gabriel’s dark blonde hair, pushing it off his face, and rests his hand on the side of Gabriel’s neck. 

"I’m gonna kiss you now," Sam tells Gabriel. 

A smirk curls Gabriel’s lips. “You do that, Sammy.” 

So, with a murmur of, “Okay,” Sam does. 

It’s almost hilariously innocent at first, just a feather-light press of mouth. Blink and you miss it, too, because almost instantly Sam’s drawing back to search Gabriel’s eyes for approval. 

But he can’t find the words to ask  _Was that okay_ _?_ or  _Do you want to keep going?_  because there’s this  _look_ on Gabriel’s face.

The artist is quirking up an eyebrow, watching Sam with a mixture of amusement and affection. It’s such a typically Gabriel expression, something that Sam has seen every Tuesday since they first met, but now there’s something else beneath the teasing sparkle in his eyes. Something darker spelled out in the dilation of his pupils and the parting of his lips. 

Instead of saying anything more, Sam just surges forward again, capturing Gabriel’s lips in another kiss. This one is more like what Sam is used to, nips and licks and working little moans out from between Gabriel’s lips. 

Somewhere along the line, Gabriel ends up in Sam’s lap—and by that point, it’s more than obvious that the artist knows how to give as good as he gets. It vaguely occurs to Sam that he’s going to have to come up with an excuse for all the marks Gabriel is sucking into his skin, but right now he doesn’t really care because Gabriel smells good and tastes even better. 

Sam is yanked back into reality when Gabriel mumbles something into the crook of his neck. 

"What?" Sam gasps out between ragged breaths. 

"I said," Gabriel responds, grinding his hips down into Sam’s once, twice, three times, "that Charlie and Anna are going to absolutely piss themselves when they find out about this." 

The mental image of what the cousins’ reactions would be results in so much laughter that Sam and Gabriel have to take a break.

And that’s okay, because they have as long as they want.


	4. first time(s)

Halfway through their first time, Gabriel asks to stop. 

Sam doesn’t think to make a big deal about it, so he just deposits four light kisses—four, because Gabriel once mentioned that that’s his favourite number—on the artist’s neck, rolls off him and pulls him into a bearhug. 

It only occurs to Sam fifteen minutes later, when Gabriel’s still stiff as a board in his arms, that something might be bothering him. 

"Hey, Gabe?" Sam whispers, his words hushed in comfortable warmth of the nighttime air. 

Gabriel wiggles around until his facing Sam again. “Yeah?” he replies, just as softly. 

"Are you okay?" 

"Yeah." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah." 

"You know you can always tell me if something’s up, right?" 

"Yeah." 

"Okay." 

"Okay." 

It takes about five minutes for Gabriel to speak again. 

"Sammy?" Gabriel asks. 

"Hmm?" 

"You don’t think I’m ugly or anything, right? I mean, I know I’m on the chubby side of things, especially on my tummy, and I know some people don’t like that, which I guess I get, but. It’s not off-putting for you or anything, right?" 

"Gabe, I think you’re gorgeous. And I love your tummy."

"Thanks, Sammy. You’ve got a real nice tummy too. You probably knew that already, but I wanted to tell you just in case you didn’t." 

"Thanks, Gabe." 

Another pause. 

"Hey, Sammy?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Can I have a kiss?" 

"Mm-hmm. I sort of want a kiss too." 

Gabriel ends up misaiming his kiss, and Sam gets a careful smooch on his chin as a result. To make things easier for Gabriel, Sam scoots down in the bed so they’re at eye-level, even if they can’t see each other all that well. 

He tips his forehead against Gabriel’s, sensing the artist’s grin. “Okay,” Sam says. “Ready to try again?” 

"I dunno. I think we need more prepping. Want a practice round?" 

"Sounds good to me." 

This time, Sam purposefully tilts his head so their noses will boop. But Gabriel seems to have the same idea in mind and, a second later, they find themselves accidentally nosing at each other’s cheeks. Gabriel finds this so amusing that, when Sam steals a proper kiss, he can still taste the laughter on Gabriel’s lips. 

Gabriel’s laughter tastes like the hot chocolate he has every night before bed. 

Somewhere between sleepy kisses (some of them actually ending up on lips, others wildly off-target) they both doze off, warm and content in their little bubble that has a population of only two. 

***

Their second first time happens two weeks later. This time, it takes a bit of coaxing to get Gabriel out of his shirt, because the lights are still on and he’s nervous about letting Sam see him naked.

But, luckily for Sam, Gabriel is more ticklish than he likes to admit—so, a few strategically-placed belly kisses and a raspberry or two later, the artist has been reduced to an easygoing pile of loose limbs that lets Sam take as much time as he wants to shower every inch of Gabriel’s body with affection. 

Gabriel’s affinity for puns rears its head right around the time Sam is sucking a small, claiming mark the wing on Gabriel’s hip. 

"It must be pretty  _hard_ for you to reach that tattoo, huh, Sammy?” 

This earns him a weary look that only seems to encourage him further, and, in a show of incredible commitment, he manages to continue his awful jokes at regular intervals throughout the night. 

Sam releases the obligatory exasperated groan whenever Gabriel comes out with yet another pun, though he has to admit that he’s actually sort of impressed with his boyfriend’s ability to think all these up on the spot (even if some of them really are eyeroll-worthy). 

It’s dorky and clumsy and full of laughter, and at one point they fall off the bed and take a very unlucky lamp with them, and it’s completely and absolutely perfect. 

The next morning, Sam wakes up to Gabriel, complete with a ridiculous fake moustache, poking him because he’s made coffee and pancakes. They last an impressive hour and a half before Sam finally cracks and asks where the facial hair came from. 

Gabriel twitches his nose, looking a bit like a rabbit as he does so, and goes cross-eyed in his attempt to peer at the fuzz stuck on his upper lip. “Thought it’d be a good match for yours. Speaking of which, Sammo, you should probably look in the mirror before you go to work.” 

(And, no, the moustache Gabriel has drew on Sam while he was sleeping doesn’t come off entirely for at least three days.)


	5. artist's block

The issue, Gabriel thinks, is that his apartment is too big. It’s always been too big, really, but Chuck was so excited to tell Gabriel what a beautiful place he bought him that—well, Gabriel didn’t dare say anything negative. It would’ve been like kicking a puppy. 

So, instead, he fills it to the brim with weird pieces of furniture he finds, like the spiral-shaped bookcase and the cassette-tape coffee table, and paints bright murals of enchanted forests and fantastical lands on the walls to make it come alive. (And, yes, there are most certainly a dozen hidden dragons incorporated into the murals. They’re all named Steve.)

The place becomes a bit cluttered, sure, but that’s never a problem till Sam arrives with his long limbs and sleepy morning dazes that mean he has a tendency to trip over quite a bit. So, reluctantly, Gabriel agrees to clear up some of the jumble. It’s okay, though, because Sam is tall and big and his laughs are full and Gabriel doesn’t feel so lonely anymore when he’s around.

But the problem is this: 

Dating Sam Winchester is awesome. Amazing, brilliant, sexy, wonderful. The list goes on and on. 

Dating a lawyer? Not as much. 

Sure, Sam works a pretty standard nine to five shift, but that’s still eight hours Gabriel is alone in the too-empty apartment. Sometimes, Sam stays at work all night. 

And, yeah, Gabriel’s thrilled for him. Sam is pursuing the career of his dreams, and even when he’s so tired that dark smudges are rubbed under his eyes and he can’t go a sentence without yawning, he still looks content. There’s no way Gabriel is gonna do anything that could mess that up. 

Sometimes, when Sam is at work, Gabriel drops by Angel Wings and gets a donut. Charlie and Anna are always more than happy to accommodate him, and more often than not Gabriel winds up with a message about him and Sam in his coffee. He’s never sure which of the cousins is to blame for that, because both redheads just smile coyly when asked, but it’s impossible to wipe the smile off his face for the rest of the day. 

Mostly, though, Gabriel just paints. 

He paints cities, thriving ones that are all alight and abustle, and broken down ones that radiate harsh red pain with their monochromatic streets; he paints women: women that are small and meek and seem to cower away from the attention of those who look at the painting like little mice, rotund women in sparkly dresses that belt out cabaret so joyously that one can almost hear them just by looking at their image. He paints bizarre creatures and flowers that are somehow beautiful in their ugliness and waves crashing into acrylic rocks—he paints everything and anything he can think of, but nothing quite satisfies him. 

One day, upon having run out of ideas, Gabriel trudges down to Angel Wings to mope for a bit. He’s just received a call from Sam telling him he’ll only be home at ten tonight, and Gabriel guesses that’s better than him not coming home at all, but it still kind of sucks to know he won’t see Sam till then. 

In short, the artist is in a sort of foul mood. Charlie seems to pick up on his weariness immediately, and whips up his double cream hot chocolate in record time. Without him even asking, she dumps in so many mini marshmallows that the little airpuffed pockets fall out the glass like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs as she carries the drink over to Gabriel. 

After peeking surreptitiously over her shoulder and receiving a thumbs up from Anna, Charlie slides into the chair opposite Gabriel and frowns at him. 

"What’s up, doc?" she asks, twisting her mouth to the side worriedly.

Gabriel quirks an eyebrow and gestures at the image of Sylvester the cat on his shirt. “Glad to see my wardrobe continues to inspire you each and every day, kiddo.” 

Charlie sticks her tongue out at him, then plucks a precariously-balanced marshmallow off the top of the mountain in Gabriel’s hot chocolate and pops it in her mouth. “Really, though, dude, what’s got you so down in the dumps?” Her brow creases. “Something going on with you and Sam?” 

"Huh? No! No. No, me and Sam are fine," Gabriel assures hurriedly. "I mean, he’s coming home late tonight which kinda blows ‘cause I wanted to try make dinner, but I guess I can do that tomorrow night so it’s okay. I just…" He slumps back in his seat. "I dunno, Chibs, I got nothing to paint." 

Some of the tension leaves Charlie and her expression relaxes into a smile as she reaches over to pat Gabriel’s arm comfortingly. “Well, Chibs says not to worry. You’ll get over your block soon, buddy, I promise.”

Gabriel makes a noncommittal grunting sound. “That doesn’t help me right now, but thanks anyway.” He scoops up a mound of marshmallows with his spoon and allows them to melt on his tongue before asking, “Whatever. Talk to me, Applebee. What’ve Chip ‘n’ Dale been up to? You two found any new couples to—uh, whaddaya call it again?  _Ship?_ ”

"Nope," Charlie says, shaking her head. She props her chin on her hand, then adds with a sly grin, "Sabriel is still the unrivaled OTP."

"Sabriel?" enquires Gabriel.

"It’s a portmanteau of Sam’s and your names!" Charlie informs him, obviously pleased with herself. 

"Huh. Sabriel," Gabriel parrots, rolling the word around his mouth. "I like it. Speaking of which, what’s up with you and that Dorothy chick? Is that…  _ship_ still sailing?” 

Charlie deflates. “That ship sunk, ‘fraid to say.” 

"Ah, Jesus, Chibs, I’m sorry. What happened?" 

"Let’s just say Dorothy isn’t in Kansas anymore." Charlie waves her hand, stealing another one of Gabriel’s marshmallows. "It’s okay, though. I’m over it. Besides, this really cute girl with green eyes came in today, and she had these  _gorgeous_ topaz earrings, and— Gabriel? Why’re you looking at me like that?” 

“ _I looked up and there before me was a man dressed in linen, with a belt of fine gold from Uphaz around his waist. His body was like topaz, his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze, and his voice like the sound of a multitude_ ,” Gabriel recites by way of response, a grin slowly breaking out on his lips. “Book of Daniel, chapter ten, verse five to verse six. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Chibs, if you weren’t gay, I’d kiss you!” 

"Uh," Charlie says, blinking at Gabriel in bewilderment. "Am I missing something, or…?" 

Gabriel downs the rest of his hot chocolate in one go, marshmallows and all, then jumps to his feet. “Applebee,” he says, grabbing her face and kissing the top of her head, “I’m gonna paint an angel!” 

***

And paint an angel he does. 

Not the fluffy-winged type that looks a bit like Cate Blanchett, no. He paints the sort of angel Daniel saw, the type with hundreds of wings and more eyes than there are stars in the universe. 

On the biggest canvas he can find, he gives the angel eagle heads and cow heads and lion heads, all snarling but somehow regal at the same time; and he does, indeed, give the angel topaz and bronze skin, meticulously applying metallic paint to all the limbs the celestial creature possesses. 

Gabriel gives each feather individual attention, making sure they shine ethereally with glints of silver and gold whenever the light catches them, and he sets the eyes alight with the blue fire of angel’s Grace. 

He doesn’t know if it’s biblically accurate, nor does he even really care—because, for the first time in months, his brushstrokes look right to his own eyes. For the first time in months, his painting doesn’t just look alive: it looks  _magical_. 

Gabriel works on the angel for so many hours he loses track of time, and he pays such careful attention to detail that he’s barely even finished a third of the painting by the time he feels Sam’s arms slide around his waist from behind. 

"You smell like paint," Sam says, words warm against Gabriel’s neck as he peppers kisses into the crook of the artist’s shoulder.

"Really? No way," replies Gabriel with feigned nonchalance, though he doesn’t bother to hide the grin brought on by Sam’s presence. "I wonder why. I mean, as you can see, all I’ve been doing today is planting a vegetable garden."

Sam hums, swaying them a little from side to side in an almost-dance as he turns his attention to the painting. “Looks amazing, Gabe. An angel?” 

"Charlie gave me the idea," supplies Gabriel, leaning back against Sam's chest. "She also told me that she and Anna call us  _Sabriel._ ”

"Sabriel?"

"Yeah! It’s like a mishmash of our names—Sam, Gabriel. Sabriel. See?" 

Sam laughs, a half-sleepy and entirely content sound. “Sounds interesting,” he says, pressing a kiss to the bolt of Gabriel’s jaw. “How’s about you tell me more over the Chinese takeouts I got on the way home?” His tone verges mischievous as he waits expectantly for Gabriel’s reaction. 

Gabriel thinks that, were he a dog, his ears would be pricked up like two soldiers standing to attention by now. “Chinese takeouts?” he repeats. 

"Chinese takeouts," Sam affirms, though the words are barely out of his mouth before Gabriel has spun around in his arms and is pulling him down into a kiss. 

"Goddamn," Gabriel breathes, tipping his forehead against Sam's. "I sure do know how to pick ‘em, huh, Samster?"


	6. charlie is not having a good day

Charlie likes to be positive, she really does, because as far as she figures—life can be pretty crappy, so there’s no need to grump about and add another gallon of negativity to the atmosphere. 

But some days… Well, some days are more difficult than others when it comes to keeping up the whole chipper thing. 

And today is one of those days. 

It starts out normal enough, really. She sleeps through her alarm for fifteen minutes, but, hey—that’s what’s gonna happen if you stay up all night reading about the Easter eggs connecting Disney movies. Besides, fifteen minutes isn’t  _too_  bad.

Then Charlie finds out her hot water isn’t working, and it all goes downhill from there. 

Already in a hurry and still half asleep, she makes the mighty mistake of stepping under the shower’s spray without testing the water first, and she lets out a squeal so high and loud she’s sure she can hear dogs from miles away barking in response. 

"Crap!" Charlie yelps, scrambling out from beneath the water and bouncing up and down in place to warm herself up. "Crap-crap-crap-crap-ohhh-holy- _crap_ -that’s-cold." 

Thus begins an epic battle, tales of which will last through the ages: Charlie Bradbury versus the Shower of Doom. 

Steadying herself in an impressively contortionistic stance, Charlie twiddles with the shower knobs in a desperate attempt to get the temperature up to at least lukewarm—but, as luck would have it, she falls short. For lack of anything better to do, she then whacks the knobs and the shower-head with a half-empty shampoo bottle for a bit, hoping that this might coax the warm water out. It doesn’t.

Charlie steps back, leaning back against the glass wall of the cubicle as she eyes out the shower warily. Maybe she can skip a shower today. Wear enough deodorant and perfume, there’s no way anyone will notice—

Upon sniffing her armpit, Charlie decides that, yep, people will definitely notice. 

With a resigned sound, she sticks her right foot under the icy spray, trying to gauge if the one-body-part-at-a-time method will work. Her foot goes numb within a few seconds, but Charlie reasons that one limb being numb at a time is better than total hypothermia, so before she can hesitate she sets to work on washing herself without becoming a human ice cube. 

By the time she’s working the conditioner out of her hair, she’s shivering so violently that she thinks she’ll need new teeth by the end of this. 

 _Scarlett Johansson. Scarlett Johansson in a bikini. Scarlett Johansson in a_ Star Wars  _bikini. Scarlett Johansson dressed as Princess Leia. Come on, Charlie, Princess Leia Johansson has faith in you._

The moment she’s done, Charlie bolts out the shower like she’s got the devil on her tail and slams the door shut behind her with a triumphant, albeit quavery, “Ha!” _  
_

One point to Charlie, zero to the demonic shower.

She doesn’t have much time to be victorious though, because,  _wow_ , even her  _eyeballs_ are cold, and it takes a few minutes of blowdrying herself with the hairdryer on full heat to extract the ice from her veins. 

Without bothering to check exactly what items of clothing she’s selected, Charlie throws on the first shirt and pair of jeans she sees and scrambles out the door so fast she’s certain her legs are blurring like she’s a cartoon character. 

Then, as if the universe is giving her one last kick in the ass for good measure, her scooter doesn’t start. Charlie stares at the Vespa incredulously. 

"You’ve got to be kidding me," she says, though the culpable machine doesn’t seem to be joking in the slightest. "You’ve  _got_ to be kidding me.”

Groaning, Charlie hauls herself off the Vespa and unclips her helmet, slinging it over the handle. Already resigned to the fact that she’s going to be late, Charlie tells the scooter that it’s not getting its seat oiled anytime in the foreseeable future, and trudges off to Angel Wings with her arms swinging like unmotivated pendulums by her sides.

"Charlie!" Anna says when Charlie finally slouches through the coffee shop’s doors. The admonishment is already clear in her tone. "You’re twenty minutes late! I’ve had to open up shop by myself—" 

"Nice to see you too," grouses out Charlie, shoving a clump of half-wet hair out her face and marching past her cousin.

The annoyance drains from Anna’s face. “Um. Are you okay?” 

In response, Charlie puffs out an extensive, long-suffering sigh and fumbles with the strings of her apron, fingers tripping over each other in her halfhearted attempt to tie a knot. 

She senses Anna come up behind her, and soon gentle hands are nimbly knotting the strings into a loopy bow. “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?” 

Despite herself, Charlie laughs. “That’s about the only thing that  _didn’t_ go wrong. First, I slept through my alarm, then I’m pretty sure my shower tried to turn me into the next Steve Rogers by freezing me solid, and then Minnie broke down.”

"The last one’s not really a surprise," Anna admits. "That Vespa of yours is so old she could’ve easily been the first to ever roll off the line." 

Charlie looks over her shoulder to glower at Anna, a measure of defensiveness bubbling within her at the badmouthing of her scooter, even if it did let her down today. “Minnie’s been as loyal to me as—as Sam Gamgee was to Frodo Baggins when he followed him into Mordor!” she protests.

"I don’t know what any of that means, Charles," Anna says, giving Charlie a one-armed hug and returning to the counter to scoop some biscuits off a baking tray and into an oversized jar. 

"She’s been good to me," Charlie clarifies as guilt floods through her for ever getting pissed with the old scooter. "I’m not going to give up on her at the drop of a hat, you know? It’s not fair." 

After an odd pause, Anna suggests, “You could always ask that Dean guy to fix Minnie up. I think he’s a mechanic.” 

"Dean? You mean Sam’s brother?" Charlie shrugs, retrieving her notepad and pen and tying her hair back in a pony. "I guess I could ask him if he ever swings by." 

"No time like the present, then," says Anna, and then she’s dashed out of the kitchen to stand at the counter and is greeting someone. 

"Oh, blarg," says Charlie. "Anna, what’re you—" Before she can finish the question, a pale hand appears through the doorway again and grabs Charlie by the arm, yanking her out into the café. 

A pair of green eyes blink at Charlie, twinkling with amusement.

"This is my cousin Charlie, Dean. She’s really gay," says Anna sweetly, all doe-eyes and innocence. 

Dean smirks a little at the second bit. “Hey, Charlie. Nice to meet ya. I’m Dean.” He sticks his hand out to shake, though since Anna’s still holding Charlie’s wrists, she can’t exactly reciprocate. 

 _"Suilad_ ,” Charlie half-squeaks, staring up at the tall man on the other side of the counter. Are the Winchesters descended from the titans or something?

Anna looks at her, then clears her throat. “I think what Charlie meant was hi.” _  
_

Dean laughs, giving Charlie an approving look. “You speak Elvish?”

"Actually, Tolkien invented more than one Elvish language, so I  _technically_ only speak Sindarin, but I’m learning Quenya t—” 

"Charlie was wondering if you’d mind fixing up her old Vespa, Minnie, for her," Anna says, looking vaguely lost with the discussion about elven linguistics. "You’re a mechanic, right?" 

"Yeah, sure," Dean grins. "Bring Minnie ‘round to Singer Salvage sometime and I’ll fix her right up for you. It’s been kinda slow at the shop lately so I’ll probably be free whenever.

"Great," says Anna, handing him a paper cup of what must be coffee and smiling. 

"Uh, yeah, great," Charlie echoes, eyeing her cousin suspiciously. 

Dean hands over the money for his drink. “ _N_ _avaer_ ,” he says with a wink, and walks off. 

Charlie waves goodbye, grinning at his Sindarin farewell, then immediately snaps her attention back to Anna. “What was that all about?”

"What was what all about?" replies Anna airily, wiping down the already-spotless counter. 

"Anna Milton, don’t you try bullshitting a bullshitter. I know when you’re planning something and you, missy, are  _definitely_ planning something,” Charlie says, narrowing her eyes. 

Anna just beams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cookie to anyone who can figure out what Anna is up to~


	7. adventure time with cas the professor and balthazar the... something

“What the fuck,” says Gabriel. Loudly.

“I,” says Sam. “I don’t know.”

“No, seriously, Sam. What the fuck?”

“Could you two  _please_  keep quiet,” says Balthazar, his voice muffled by the couch cushion his face is pressed into, “because  _some people_ are trying to  _sleep_.” He pulls something vaguely blankety-feeling over his head to block out the light.

A few seconds of silence settle over the room as everyone processes this. For a moment, Balthazar thinks his darling brother has heeded his request for silence.

Then, Gabriel yells, “You two  _broke into my apartment!_  What the hell happened!?”

“Well.” Balthazar sits up with a sigh and holds his index finger in the air, trying to figure out what to say next. Instead of a wave of explanatory genius, the only thing that rushes over him is nausea. He flops back over again. “And then, well… Well,” he finishes, succinctly.

He can hear Gabriel pulling in another breath, possibly to yell at him more—hypocritically, as Gabriel is hardly the image of virtue himself—but he’s cut off by the sound of scratchy voice rumbling beside Balthazar.

“Balthazar took me for a night out,” says Cas. “He bought a large amount of frankly worrying sex toys, and, if memory and the pain on my back serves correct, we got matching tattoos. I believe we also acquired a cat somewhere along the way, but I do not quite recall when.”

As if on cue, there’s a high-pitched yowling sound and a yelp that sounds considerably Winchester-y.

 _At least Cassie’s still alive,_  Balthazar thinks, trying to remain optimistic. Cas’ silence so far was beginning to feel morbid.

“And Balthazar dyed his hair pink,” Cas adds as an afterthought. “I shaved mine on one side.”

“Thanks, Tweedledee. I noticed,” says Gabriel, and then he hits Balthazar hard over the head with a cushion. “Your turn, Tweedledum. How did  _The Hangover, Part Novak_  end up with you two—and Whiskers over there—B and E’ing your asses in here to wreck the place?”

Balthazar squawks his protest and flails into a sitting position to glare back at Gabriel’s scowling face. A lock of newly-fuchsia hair drifts delicately down over his eyes. “I assumed we would be greeted with hospitality.”

Gabriel hits him with the cushion viciously again. “Yeah, here’s your hospitality, you prissy English fucker—!”

“ _Gabriel_ ,” Sam cuts in, hopping on one foot since a scrawny black alley cat is attached steadfastly to the other, and tries to pry his boyfriend off of Balthazar. Whatever lawyerly instincts within him that are hoping to prevent a homicide on the premises pale in comparison to Gabriel’s wrath, however; Gabriel scrambles out of Sam’s grip and straddles Balthazar, hands latching around his throat.

“How the hell did you manage to destroy the  _entire apartment_  while we were out?” demands Gabriel furiously. If Balthazar wasn’t currently being choked, he’d suggest that Gabriel get a rabies shot. “There’s a horse dildo in my Two-Percent Homo Milk painting, Balthazar!  _Why is there a horse dildo in my Two-Percent Homo Milk painting!?_ ”

“If you stopped—cutting off my air supply, I might—be able to tell you,” gurgles Balthazar.

There’s a soft voice by the couch—soft in the same way a large predator’s growl might be before it rips its prey’s throat out in one swift, ruthless move. “I have a headache. You two are not helping.”

Gabriel and Balthazar look up simultaneously, Gabriel’s fingers still around Balthazar’s neck. Cas stares at them with level murderousness in his bloodshot eyes. The bright light leaking in through the windows highlights the paleness to his skin and the dark circles bruised beneath his eyes, making him appear eerily similar to the ghost woman from  _The Ring._

Slowly, Gabriel slides off of Balthazar with a cowed expression.

“Thank you,” says Cas mildly, and stalks off to pull his cat from Sam’s leg.

Sam lets out a breath of relieved air and, after examining the new rips in his jeans, finally says looks up and asks, “So are you guys going to tell us what happened or not?” 

Balthazar squints at him. Then, with a sigh, he says, “All right, all right. But, at the end of this all, please be sure to remember that you  _asked_  us for an explanation. If you don’t like what you hear, that’s not our fault.”

And, so, he starts from the very beginning (it’s a very good place to start). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno if I'll continue this but whatevs


End file.
